A Broken Radiator
by thefriendlyshrub
Summary: The radiator of 221B is broken. Body heat must be shared. (Johnlock)
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: The radiator of 221B is broken in the dead of winter. Body heat must be shared. (Johnlock)**

"Jesus, it's cold in here," John said as he climbed the stairs to his flat one evening. Well, _their_ flat. The one he had been sharing with the world's only consulting detective for a little over a month now. And also the one he had hoped would be warm, a sharp contrast from the icy street outside.

He shouted for said detective as he took his shoes off.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" The other man said from the kitchen, eyes glued to a microscope.

"Care to tell me why it's so bloody freezing?"

"Well, John, the last time I checked, it _was_ the middle of winter—

"Oh, for god's sake." John muttered as made his way over to the radiator. What he saw made him stop cold, pun intended.

One of Sherlock's experiments was placed precariously atop the machine, well, what was left of it at least. John looked down the barrel of the empty beaker that sat innocently on the only heating device in the flat aside from the fireplace which hadn't been used in months and lacked a certain amount of firewood needed to run such a contraption. A gaping hole occupied the bottom of the glass.

The doctor carefully picked up the experiment, revealing that the hole continued down, _through_ the radiator.

That would explain the chilly atmosphere.

"Erm, Sherlock?" John said again.

"Yes?"

"Are you aware that one of your _experiments_ has burned a massive whole through our radiator?" He said calmly.

"Really? Oh, good! That narrows my ideas for the case down to about six!" The tall man sprang up from his seat and bounded over to where John was standing.

"You… what? You did this on purpose?" The shorter man crossed his arms.

"As you may recall, the oven is still broken and at the time I was using the microwave to determine if there was any difference in the time it takes for human and primate eyeballs to explode, there isn't, if you were wondering, and I needed another heat source to test a corrosive material that may or may not have been used in the murder case I am now on the brink of solving. Happy now?" Sherlock ended his rant with a twirl of his blue dressing gown as he picked up the now useless beaker and went back to his microscope.

John sighed. "Fine, I'm going to take a hot shower." He walked up to his bathroom, eager to feel the warmth of the water.

After shedding his clothes and getting into the shower, turning it all the way up, John had a shocking realization. _Where would he sleep tonight?_

The doctor absolutely hated sleeping cold, which was why his overhead fan was beginning to gather dust, and he knew that just a few extra blankets would not be enough to keep him warm. Plus, his room was the least insulated space in the flat because of some experiment Sherlock had conducted with the density of the walls before John had moved in. It was fine when the radiator was on, but now…

Okay, so his room was out. John began to explore his other options while massaging shampoo into his short hair.

The couch. That was the next potential sleeping arrangement. But with the way his shoulder had been acting up, and his back from when he slipped and fell on some ice while chasing a criminal a few days ago, the couch was deemed unfit for his current condition.

For the same reason, he couldn't sleep on the floor in front of the fireplace.

That left one option. Sherlock's bed.

It met the requirements for his shoulder and back, and the two men would provide enough body heat for each other to sleep comfortably, if they lie close enough—

No. John refused to think about that any further. But he couldn't deny the fact that he wouldn't _mind _sleeping in the same bed as Sherlock. He tried to convince himself it was because he hated the cold, but it was no use.

John wanted to be more than Sherlock's flatmate. More than his friend. More than his blogger. Come to think of it, no, John liked how Sherlock called him "his blogger." Especially the "his" part.

But Sherlock could never find out. It would ruin their friendship. And even if he _did_ find out (which he probably at some point would, due to his uncanny ability to see into peoples' souls) nothing would come of it. John was saddened by the thought. Sherlock was asexual, married to his work. There was no chance in Hell they would ever be together.

Then, with a laugh to himself, John realized: he hadn't even proposed the idea of sleeping together to his flatmate yet. He had been fantasizing about him for the entire duration of his shower like a teenage girl. John was ashamed of himself.

He quickly finished washing himself and turned off the calming water, wrapping himself tightly in a towel and stepping out of the tub. He was instantly hit with a wave of freezing air, and he pulled the towel even tighter.

He dressed in striped pajama bottoms, a plain grey long-sleeve shirt, and his warmest jumper. Before leaving his room, he grabbed his pillow, not wanting to come all the way back up the stairs if he was going to be sleeping in Sherlock's bed. He could have borrowed one of the other man's, but he didn't completely trust that they were sanitary enough for sleeping.

John cautiously descended the steps to the living room as he tried to hide the chattering of his teeth. Luckily, the soft sound of Sherlock's violin drowned it out, floating through the flat like a feather caught in a breeze. He reached the bottom and spotted Sherlock, who was now standing with his back to him, gazing out the window as he played the slow song on his violin.

John leaned against the door frame, admiring the detective. The other man's back was clearly outlined by the blue dressing gown he so often wore. His shoulder blades moved smoothly as the bow danced across the strings.

Sherlock's head was tilted slightly, so that his chin rested on the instrument, and the porcelain skin of his neck peeked out from under his collar. John wondered what it would feel like to run his fingertips up Sherlock's neck, into the dark curls hanging down from the base of his skull, and draw him closer until—

"John, why are you standing there?" Sherlock said without turning around.

John tried to think of a better answer than "admiring the perfect skin of the back of your neck" but all he could manage was, "Well, I… erm… I was… I was going to…"

John sighed and Sherlock whipped around. He could see in the man's intriguing eyes that his powers of deduction were tingling.

"You came down the stairs slowly, either because you didn't want me to hear you, or your back is bothering you again. Judging by the fact you didn't quite keep up with me during my last case, I'm guessing it's your back. Also, you're wearing long-sleeved pajamas and a jumper, showing that, unlike me, you are bothered by the cold. You're holding a pillow, your pillow, so you weren't planning on sleeping in your room, most likely because you think it's too cold, so you were going to sleep somewhere down here. Your first choice would be the couch, but, as I said before, your back is hurting, so not the couch, and there is only one other option, obviously not counting the floor, which is my bed, and since I know you and your social niceties, and how it is 'polite' to ask someone before you use their things, I will save you the trouble of asking me yourself. Yes, you can sleep with me in my bed to conserve body heat because I broke the bloody radiator."

**AN: Thanks for reading! There will be another chapter, possibly two if you like it :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Here's Chapter 2! Sorry it took so long for me to write, I've just been sooooo busy! School started last week, and I had a bunch of homework, and then it was my birthday so I had family in town, and I just haven't had any free time but i FINALLY finished, so here you are :)**

**Also I guess I have to say I don't own nothin'.**

* * *

"Oh…right, then, I'll just… go to…Erm… your room," John stammered.

"I'll be there in a moment," Sherlock told him. "I just have to check up on a couple experiments."

John blinked once, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, shut it again, and walked swiftly away. When he arrived at Sherlock's room, the lights were off, so he flicked them on, illuminating the impeccably clean space.

John didn't know what he was expecting when he saw Sherlock's room for the first time, but it was definitely not this. The bed was made, the wood floor looked to have been recently swept, and each suit Sherlock owned was hanging up in the closet. John stepped closer. And they were organized by _color. _

Shaking his head, a little surprised and a lot fascinated by his flatmate's bedroom, but really wanting to stop shivering, John turned to the bed. There was only one pillow on it, positioned on the right side, so John threw his next to it. He lifted the blankets and climbed in the bed on the side closest to the door. Once situated, he wondered if he should turn off the lights, but as he was reaching for the light switch, Sherlock bounded in, and his dressing gown smacked John in the face.

"Oi!"

"Sorry," he heard Sherlock mutter. The taller man moved around the bed to his side as he shed his dressing down and white t-shirt. John tried, unsuccessfully, to look away. Sherlock sat down, facing the opposite wall, to take off his socks.

From where he was lying, John could see the muscles of his flatmate's back, faintly lit by the moon streaming through the window. He had to resist the sudden urge to sit behind Sherlock and wrap his arms around him.

Suddenly, the detective snapped John out his daze by throwing the duvet up and sliding under it. John had scooted to the far edge of the bed so as not to accidentally touch him and cause an awkward experience for them both, but then Sherlock said something that, John predicted, would cause the whole situation to become rather complicated.

"John, I thought the whole purpose of us sharing this bed was to share body heat, so I don't have the faintest idea as to why you are way over there."

After three seconds of thought, John decided he was still much too cold to not agree. He gracelessly rolled over, until he could feel Sherlock's back against his own.

"Erm, is this okay?" John asked.

"Of course it's okay, why would it not be?"

"No reason… Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

Some hours later, John woke up to movement on the other side of the bed. For a second, he forgot where he was, and thinking it was a murderer, was about to scream for Sherlock. He realized it was his flatmate right after opening his mouth, then shut it quickly, embarrassed at what might have happened. Sherlock, waking up to the sound of John screaming his name. People might talk.

Then again, they _were_ sharing a bed together.

It was still dark out, so he assumed Sherlock was going to the bathroom or something. But then, the shifting continued, accompanied with whimpers and John could have sworn he heard his name in the heavy breathing of his flatmate.

John flipped over so that he was facing Sherlock, and realized that the other man was having a nightmare.

He was holding the duvet with both hands, knuckles white, with sweat shining on his forehead. John noticed the frantic side to side movements Sherlock's eyes made beneath his eyelids, as if the man was searching for someone. The detective's teeth were clenched tightly together, and John felt his legs kicking frantically under the numerous blankets.

John became conscious of the actually freezing air a second too late, after he suddenly sat up and the duvet fell from his neck to his waist. More concerned about the current crisis state his friend was in, John elected to ignore the unhealthy temperature of the room.

He grabbed Sherlock by his bare shoulders, and began shaking him. After a few seconds of increasing failure, John opened his mouth again to shout Sherlock's name.

"Sherlock!"

The dark-haired man's eyes flew open with a gasp at the sound of his name.

"John!"

Before the doctor could fall back onto his pillow, Sherlock pulled the smaller man on top of him, wrapping his long arms tightly around his figure.

"I had a nightmare," Sherlock mumbled into his shoulder.

"Yeah, I figured as much," John replied. He knew he should try and get out of the embrace, but, to be honest, he was rather enjoying himself. He cautiously moved his hands from Sherlock's shoulders to his back, so he could lay his head on the detective's chest.

He could feel Sherlock trembling beneath him, and he didn't think it was due to their cold flat. "Jesus, Sherlock, you're trembling! How often do these happen?"

"Every night," Sherlock said quietly, miserably. He held John closer. "And they're always about you."

"Me?" John lifted his head so he could look at Sherlock, incredulous of the fact that he could care about him that much.

"We were on a case," the detective began. "It was a murder, and we were chasing a criminal. You ran ahead of me, but my legs wouldn't work. I tried to keep up, but you kept getting farther and farther ahead, and then you looked back at me to see where I was. I saw the murderer come out from an alley ahead of you, but you were facing me so you didn't see him. You made some joke about how slow I was, then the bullet came out of your forehead." Sherlock was whispering by this point, and his voice kept breaking, as if he was on the verge of tears. "This was the worst one yet. It seemed so real, John. I thought you had died. I don't know what I would do without you."

He was crying now, silently, the tears running down his face like rain droplets slipping down a window. John couldn't bear the thought of Sherlock being unhappy, so he did the first and only thing he could think of to fix that.

John lifted his head off of Sherlock's chest and scooted up until their eyes were parallel. Sherlock's head was directly beneath John's, and the doctor grabbed his face in his hands, wiping the tears away with his thumbs.

John figured it was now or never. They were, in fact, sharing a bed, John was presently _on top of _Sherlock, who was presently distraught and needing comfort from a man whom he actually _cared_ about, so maybe, John thought, it would turn out okay.

Cupping Sherlock's face with his calloused hands, John carefully pressed their lips together, pleasantly surprised when the other man returned the kiss.

He didn't want to push his luck by going any further, so after a few seconds of the mind-numbing kiss, John pulled away. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock staring up at him, a hand resting lightly on the back of John's neck.

"You're going to have to do much more than that if you want to make me feel better," Sherlock said with a smirk.

John grinned back and their mouths crashed together once more, this time with more confidence on either side. One of Sherlock's hands was now on John's waist, pulling them closer together, while the other curled tightly into the fabric on the front of his blogger's shirt. A hand moved into Sherlock's hair, and John let out a small groan as Sherlock reached under his shirt to run his fingers over John's side.

It was at this moment that John decided his shirt was hindering his ability to fully enjoy his kissing Sherlock. And, as he assumed from his whimpers, Sherlock felt the same. Parting their lips for merely a second, John sat up and ripped off his shirt, smashing his lips against Sherlock's again before it even hit the floor.

Now, John's bare chest was meeting Sherlock's for the first time, and it was wonderful. It was warm and smooth and beautiful beneath his, and he could feel both their hearts beating wildly together. And then, just as John's chest and Sherlock's chest were getting to know each other, he was introduced to Sherlock's tongue.

It was just a tiny brush on his bottom lip, just a stunning stranger he bumped into once, hoping they would meet again, and just that little movement caused John to emit a sound he never knew he could make. Sherlock took this as an invitation, using both hands to cup John's face and kiss him more deeply.

They were both breathing hard, their mouths moving together in unison, as if they had been doing this their whole lives, and woah, for a second there John couldn't tell which tongue in his mouth was his, and then all he could think about was that he was so very happy Sherlock broke the radiator on purpose and he hoped the shops were all out of radiators so he could do this again with Sherlock tomorrow night and actually he wanted this to happen every night and why didn't they think of this before and Sherlock is a really good kisser and how did he get to be such a good kisser and it really doesn't matter does it so he decided to keep kissing Sherlock.

John was straddling him now, and he pushed his hands through those dark curls he had always longed to touch, and they were every bit as soft as he expected them to be. Sherlock grabbed John by the waist again, blazing circles into John's bare skin.

After some time, both men seemed to simultaneously decrease their use of tongues, and resort to small kisses on the lips, then cheeks, then neck, as a tired John slid off of Sherlock but still lay with his head on his shoulder, an arm and a leg thrown over the taller man.

"Are you still cold, John?" Sherlock asked sleepily.

John chuckled. "No, I'm not."

"Good," Sherlock said, and they both fell asleep perfectly content, with the faintest outline of a smile on each of their faces.


End file.
